


Two Kings

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Series: The Thranduil Collection [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Thranduil (Tolkien), Hurt/Comfort, Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: Thorin and Thranduil find themselves swept away from the battlefield. Forced to spend time together, both dwarf and elf prove to be formidable characters, and when it's two kings thrown into the mix, nothing is ever going to be easy.Now complete.





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Where are we?"

Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, pushed himself to his feet, swiping at leaf debris and ice particles that had attached themselves to his dark braids. He seemed little more than a shadow in the dim light beneath the trees, only the gleam of his silver rings and the angry glitter in his eyes giving him substance.

"I cannot say."

"Cannot say, or will not say?"

Thorin sent a glare of pure venom at the pale glow of the tall and elegant figure at his side. The Elvenking raised an eyebrow by a minuscule amount, just enough to make Thorin feel like an uneducated fool, which was no doubt his intent.

"If I knew where the Lonely Mountain lay, I would hardly be standing here with you, dwarf."

"You're an arrogant bastard," said Thorin without preamble.

"And you are a fool," said Thranduil haughtily. "But it appears we are stuck with each other for the time being."

"I'll soon remedy that; I have no desire to spend a moment longer with you than is necessary."

Thorin looked about them, the sharp movement of his head and the snake-like shift of dark hair upon his shoulders an expression of his rage. After a few moments he set off in a resolute manner; the Elvenking followed him on silent feet.

"Is this your doing, elf?"

"It appears that your brains are as small as your stature. I was carried here in the same manner as yourself."

"Aye, and the accursed eagle was probably doing your bidding."

"The eagle may well have been enchanted, but not by me. I was somewhat busy at the time."

The Elvenking's eyes were far too penetrating, thought Thorin, regretting that his irritation had caused him to look back over his shoulder.

"You had no business being there," he blurted, his fists clenching involuntarily at the memory. "Killing Azog was MY destiny."

"You did kill him." Thranduil pointed out calmly.

"I did not need the assistance of a traitorous elf!"

"Then be assured I shall not offer it again." 

The elf accompanied the words with a disdainful incline of his head, and swept regally past Thorin.

"Where do you think you're going."

Thranduil did not bother to turn around, his words sailing behind him as he strode away.

"This is woodland and I am an elf. I will lead the way. You may stay or follow as you please."

Dark brows lowered, fingers twitching on the hilt of his sword, the Dwarf King followed him reluctantly. After all if he didn't keep Thranduil in sight, the flighty creature was likely to disappear amongst the trees. They walked in silence for some time, until Thorin's ire got the better of him. 

"You're leading us on a wild goose chase. You don't know where we are any more than I do!"

"When we reach the third hill, the Lonely Mountain will be in sight."

Even the swirl of the elf's cloak was irritating. Thorin glowered at the long back in front of him.

"You said you didn't know where we were."

"And now I do."

"How is that? If I find this is more elvish trickery..."

Thranduil stopped and regarded him with pity.

"You really must learn to control that temper. The Lonely Mountain lies in that direction. The trees sing of it."

Thorin knew he gaped and cursed himself for it. Then he was hurrying after the Elven King again, wishing the pain in his pierced foot was not so fierce, and that he had the longer stride and could take the lead, for he could not bring himself to trust the treacherous being. Not even those moments on the ice could make him to do that.

There was no further conversation until, after the passage of what seemed like half a day but was probably nearer to a couple of hours, they emerged from the trees to see the Lonely Mountain, blue in the distance. It seemed to Thorin that Thranduil's shoulders sagged a little in disappointment, but the elf's face was as impassive as ever.

"Damn that eagle." Thorin dragged a hand despairingly across his scalp. "I need to be with my people."

"As do I." The elf's face was pale against the dark backdrop of winter bare branches.  After a brief pause, he added carefully, "I am sorry for your loss."

The courtesy was a surprise; there was no reason for the elf to regret the loss of one of Thorin's kin, and it took the dwarf a moment to respond, trying as he was to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

"Fili was a fine dwarf."

It was necessary to squint against the burn of tears, for he would not cry before this elf, and would not be outdone in courtesies either.

"When Azog was dead, you left to find your son?"

The Elvenking's voice was empty of emotion. "I found him."

"And?"

"He lives. I am fortunate."

"Then he must be fearful for your safety."

"He is not aware of my absence," said Thranduil in a bleak voice. "He left before the Eagle arrived." His gaze remained on the dwarf, a look of pity in his eyes that had nothing to do with the absence of a son.

"What is it? You have something more to say, then speak!" The harsh attempt to disguise the fear that caused Thorin's heart to falter fooled neither of them.

"I regret I must give you ill news."

The Dwarf King found himself frozen on the spot, unable to look away.

"After I found Legolas, I came across another of your kin. I fear it was too late to do anything to help him."

Kin. No. It could not be. Thorin stared at the elf, hating him more than ever.

"Kili."

No answer was necessary. He hunched into himself, holding the anguish tight in his chest. "I should have been there."

"Do not carry those words with you. Grief is a heavy enough burden, Thorin Oakenshield."

"What know you of burdens or grief? Hiding in your trees and your great Halls. You have as much heart as a piece of ice!"

The elf dropped his chin, his eyes cast down. "It has been said," he murmured.

As suddenly as it came, Thorin's anger was gone, leaving only overwhelming grief. The dwarf turned away, bitter tears spilling down his cheeks and his foot sliding in the blood-slick interior of his boot as he stormed resolutely in the direction of the Mountain.

After a few minutes, Thranduil followed slowly, staying far enough behind that he could not hear the choke of the dwarf's breathing or intrude upon his privacy. The elf's heart was full of its own grief, with the dark despair of the loss of so many immortal lives cut through with the jagged lightning strike of "I cannot stay." Never before had words uttered by Legolas hurt so deeply.

Unseen throughout most of the day, the sun was setting behind a bank of grey cloud by the time Thorin stopped. The Mountain was much closer now; a few hours more walking would bring them to the remains of Lake Town.

Exhausted by the outward expression of his grief, the dwarf was light-headed with detachment and it took him a while to realise that Thranduil was still some distance behind, moving slowly through the twilight, almost invisible but for his pale hair. The sound of a mithril covered boot catching on bare rock and the scuff of a cloak on frozen grass announced that the Elvenking must be weary too, for it was unlike him to make any sound, graceful in movement as he was.

Thorin waited impatiently, glad that the red rims around his eyes would be invisible in the half-light. When Thranduil drew close, he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the Mountain.

"Lake Town is not far from here."

The Elvenking nodded. "You will be back before midnight. The way is easier from here."

"You do not accompany me then?" The jut of Thorin's jaw became challenging. "Does it shame you to arrive in the company of a dwarf?"

The response sounded almost apologetic, not a natural emotion for the ruler of Mirkwood. "I fear I must rest awhile."

A likely story, thought Thorin, scorn in his snort. "Are elves that fragile then, that they cannot withstand a battle and a short walk in the space of one day?"

He turned derisive eyes on his companion and saw that the elf was indeed even paler than normal in the fading light, ghostly even. The hue lent an innocence to his features and gave a luminosity to his eyes that was unsettling. It seemed the day had taken its toll on both of them. At that thought, Thorin shook himself mentally, determined to dislike the creature and annoyed at the feeling of unease that stole over him when Thranduil put out a hand to steady himself against a lightning-shattered tree.

"Does something ail you, elf?"

"It is no concern of yours."

"Perhaps not, but let it not be said that Thorin Oakenshield abandoned a comrade in arms."

"A comrade in arms? I never thought to hear a dwarf and an elf described as such." A flicker of amusement crossed the face of the Elvenking.

"Nor I. For all that, today you fought at my side." Thorin gritted his teeth, not wishing to speak the facts as he saw them.  "I believe I may have died, were you not there."

Thranduil was clearly not expecting such an admission. "You do not owe me any debt," he said in his customary cold tone. "We fought a common enemy."

"My honour says otherwise," replied the dwarf gravely, his keen eyes not leaving the elf, who swayed before him like a tall tree in a wind. "Sit down elf, before you fall over."

Thranduil's expression suggested he would like to say something unforgivable, but sensing the imminent betrayal of his body, he eased himself toward the nearest tree and settled into the curve of a lower bough. The simple act made Thorin realise how drained he was himself, and he lowered himself into a smooth cup in a boulder, taking comfort from the heartbeat of the stone, no doubt as Thranduil did from the living energy of the tree.

"I will take first watch." The dwarf could not bring himself to trust the other, and in truth the elf's need for rest appeared greater than his own.

"It is not necessary. The trees inform me there are no orcs on the slopes."

Thorin swallowed his disbelief, deciding it was not worth an argument. The soft slur in Thranduil’s voice suggested he was not at present a reliable authority on the matter and besides, Thorin intended to do no more than doze on his rocky seat.

The best intentions can get lost in exhaustion, and to Thorin's surprise the moon was high by the time he re-opened his eyes. He rose abruptly, cursing his own weakness and rubbing at his numb backside. Stone may be of comfort as a seat, but it was far from comfortable.

He swung his dark head suspiciously in the direction of his companion's resting place, half expecting him to have vanished, but the shadowed form of the Elvenking had not moved, although he seemed to be more enclosed by small branches than before, almost as though the tree was cradling the lithe form in its boughs. Thorin snorted derisively, tempted to simply leave, but honour dictated he should at least make the elf aware of his departure, thus enabling him to continue the journey or keep his own guard as he pleased.

With that in mind, he approached the recumbent figure, finding that it was surprisingly difficult as protruding roots snagged at his boots and small twigs jabbed him painfully about the face. Fending off a claw-like branch, he reached out and shook the elf by his arm, surprised at the time it took for the being to stir, alert and resilient as elves customarily were. Indeed, Thranduil struggled slowly back to awareness as though he attempted to escape the clutches of cloying mud, the effort evident in the catch of his breath, something in the quality of the sound making Thorin's guts lurch in sympathy, although why he would care for the other's suffering was beyond him. Perhaps the elf had sustained an injury of some sort, although he had given no sign of it.

Any further ponderings in that direction were cut short when the Elvenking’s eyelids lifted and he glowered at the source of his awakening.

“Unhand me, dwarf!”

Fairly spluttering with indignation, Thorin withdrew, sending a venomous glare at a forked branch that scraped against his ribs.

“Why do you linger?” There was a puzzled tone in the elf’s voice, as though he had not expected to find Thorin still there. “Are you unsure of the way?”

Thorin scowled. “I am a dwarf, you pointed-eared fool. I can find my way in dark tunnels miles below the surface. Besides…” he swept a hand to the side. “There are fires enough burning in Lake Town to act as beacons.”

“Indeed,” said Thranduil absently. He seemed to be concentrating more on a careful and graceful rise from his bough than on the conversation. At length he stood beside the tree, remarkably unmarked by pointed twig and giving off the faintest of glows in the shadows.

“I will take my leave,” snapped Thorin. “But I will not leave you slumbering and unaware. I did not know elves slept like children.”

Surprisingly, the Elvenking did not rise to the bait and Thorin found himself disappointed at the lack of a barbed reply. After a moment he gave a sharp nod and settled his sword more comfortably at his hip.

“If I’m unfortunate enough to pass any elves, I will tell them you are here.”

“If you pass any elves,” said Thranduil faintly, “It is not likely that you will see them.”

There was a glisten to his forehead in the moonlight that may have been his natural otherworldly glow, but to Thorin’s eyes it seemed more the texture of perspiration, not something he expected to see on such a cold night, even on a creature with formidable resistance to extremes of temperature. It nagged at him, for the elf seemed incapacitated in some way and it rankled against the Dwarf King’s sense of pride to leave someone in need of aid.

Thorin paused, his will and his honour pulling him in different directions as his memory recalled the moment when Azog’s blade seemed sure to pierce his chest; there had been a ring of steel as the blade was swept away by another and the swirl of a black cloak and long legs leaping over him. It had given him enough time to right his blade, drive it up into the chest of his opponent. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have killed the beast without the timely assistance. There was considerable doubt that he would have survived himself. His irritation at the perceived debt translated itself into a hefty slap against his sword hilt.

“It would be better if we arrived together.”

“How so?”

“I would not want your kin to think I murdered you to settle an old debt.” In truth it would be an easy thing to do at this moment, although entirely without honour. “We will travel back to Lake Town as two Kings. A show of alliance for our people.”

“It seems I have underestimated your diplomacy.” Thranduil gave him a sharp glance, but any intended sting was lost as his mouth twisted involuntarily as he stepped forwards.

“If we run into any orcs,” said Thorin bluntly. “I would know what ails you. I do not want to find myself skewered because an elf cannot raise his sword.”

Defiance and embarrassment fought briefly on the elf’s features, both giving way to resignation. “A minor injury,” he said in a dismissive tone. “Although it has bled more than it should. No matter; it will heal quickly.”

The thought of it caused the elf's body to curl slightly in upon itself, as though speaking of it aloud made the wound more real. His right side, Thorin realised, stepping forward quickly and twitching the cloak away…a cloak heavy and wet with something that gleamed black on his fingers in the moonlight. He ignored the elf’s hiss of discomfort and anger and swatted his arm away, reaching in to feel his torso. His fingers encountered the necessary gap in armour that enabled a sword to be swung freely, and beneath that torn flesh and, horrifyingly, bone. And then the tall figure seemed to fold in upon itself, without a sound, but with an expression of such hurt that Thorin instinctively caught him as he fell and bore him to the ground as gently as possible.

Cursing, the Dwarf King spat out a mouthful of fine, blond hair that seemed to have attached itself to the coarser fibres of his beard.

"Elf!" he barked, tapping the Elvenking's face none too gently with his fingers. "Elf!" Then on getting no response, "Thranduil?" The name was strange on his tongue. "Thranduil?"

It seemed to get through, for the elf stirred, opening his eyes to find Thorin staring at him intently from a distance of a few inches. He jerked back with a look of shocked embarrassment.

"You fainted." There was no point sugar-coating it.

“I am a warrior king,” said Thranduil weakly. “I do not faint.”

“No,” agreed Thorin in a dark tone. “Kings cannot faint. For all that, we seem to be upon the floor.”

It had been far too long a day. Battles and dragon sickness and the Arkenstone. The slaying of an enemy he had been destined to face and the loss of his dearly beloved kin. Kingdoms won and kingdoms almost lost again. Only to end with a flight in the talons of an enchanted eagle and the unwanted company of his elven enemy, who was currently oblivious to the fact that he was lying on Thorin’s lap. Sometimes the fates were cruel in totally unexpected ways.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Thorin was drawn from his dark ponderings by a curse; on glancing down he saw a look of shame spreading across the face of the elf, who seemed to have recovered his senses enough to become aware of his undignified position.

Pretending there was nothing untoward about finding himself seated upon the ground with a despised elf in his arms, the Dwarf King wriggled his legs clear as gently as possible, grimacing involuntarily at the resultant pain in his own wounded foot.

"A fine mess this is," he muttered.

Thranduil rolled cautiously up onto one elbow, his other arm clamped tight against his injured side. "My apologies," he said stiffly.

"I do not need your apology." Thorin scowled at him. "Lie down, and I will bind your side. If you lose any more of that tree sap you use for blood, then your son will be the next Elvenking sooner than you intend."

"I fear that would displease him greatly."

Thranduil fumbled at the fastenings of his armour with an unsteady hand and Thorin batted it away.

"Lie down, elf. I've tended wounds before! Besides, you've most likely been waited on hand and foot for so long you haven't undressed yourself in years."

Thranduil glared at him, his eyebrows a fierce line across his brow, but maintained a dignified silence as he lay back upon the ground. Without further ado, Thorin moved the cloak aside and unclasped the fine armour, pulling the breast and back plates free with care and laying them on the grass. A man would have struggled to see with only the illumination of the moon, but dwarfish eyes were accustomed to picking out detail in dim light and Thorin could see well enough to make him wince. The jagged rent in bruised and bloodied skin was deep enough to show bone, the elf's life force still leaking slowly across rib and muscle. Somehow the sorry sight lessened the prevailing anger in the dwarf's heart.

"Did you come by this after Azog?" He asked, confident that the elf had not sustained injury at that time.

"No. Some hours before; my steed was slain beneath me..." A look of sorrow pulled at Thranduil’s face and his words trailed away to silence.

The great elk, thought Thorin, surprised to realise that the creature had meant something to the elf, given his cold demeanour.

"You fought on, injured like this?" Perhaps the Elvenking was a warrior at heart after all, despite his refined manners. Thorin's thoughts skittered awkwardly around the solid block of his dislike for elven kind and Thranduil in particular, and he chastised himself mentally. Of course Thranduil was a warrior; he had been both warrior and king thousands of years before Thorin's birth. His youthful appearance and the unpleasant nature of their shared history were constantly distracting.

"Battles do not stop for such small wounds." Only Thranduil could sound so haughty, laid on his back as he was.

"This is not a small wound! Why did you not speak of it?"

"What would be the purpose?" Unspoken words behind the question. Why would you care?

"I could have given you aid. Yet instead you walk behind me, bleeding, and leaving a trail for any orc to follow!"

"It appears we both left a trail." Thranduil stared pointedly at Thorin's pierced boot. "Why did you not tend your foot?"

"I would not give you the satisfaction of knowing I was hurt." Thorin was startled by his own admission and the strength of his bitterness, but to his amazement, Thranduil smiled.

"It seems," the Elvenking said gravely, "We are both at the mercy of our pride."

The small peace offering was unexpected. Thorin looked at him thoughtfully, then spoke carefully.

"Pride has caused much damage between our peoples."

The Elvenking did not dispute that fact, merely returning his gaze. Thorin sighed, his thoughts drawn back to the events of the past few days.

"Is it a peril of being a king? An over-abundance of pride?"

Again the small curl of elvish lips. "I fear sometimes it is all we have left."

"Then we must hope none see us tonight, brought to our knees as we are."

"Indeed. Although as we are both kings, perhaps some things can remain untold?"

"Fear not, elf. I will tell no-one you fainted in my arms."

The jibe was a timely distraction, for it was at that moment Thorin tipped most of the contents of his brandy flask into the wound. The elf bucked, eyes flying wide, silent despite the shudder that ran through his frame beneath the dwarf’s restraining hand.

"I have little by way of dressing," said Thorin apologetically.

The Elvenking was breathless with shock, his face stark in the moonlight as he gestured to a squat looking tree behind Thorin. "It... It will allow you to peel off some bark. The fibre within can be placed over the wound."

"It will allow me?"

"It is honoured to assist," noted Thranduil wearily. "But have a care, and take as little as possible."

Bemused, Thorin limped towards the indicated tree. There was a quiet chirr of metal against sheath as he drew out his knife and laid it against the trunk.

"No!" Thranduil was on his feet, horrified. "It is a living being! Are you so bound to the cold heart of rock that you cannot feel its pain!"

To Thorin's amazement the elf moved with admirable speed to insert himself between dwarf and tree, and there he clung for support, long fingers caressing the rough trunk, the ragged puff of his breath against Thorin's forehead as he scowled fiercely at him.

"There is no cause for a blade."

The elf picked with care at the bark with his fingertips until he could peel a strip loose. He then teased a fibrous substance from its inner surface before stroking the bark back into place, all the time his actions accompanied by a whispered stream of elvish that fell into the night air like the softest of raindrops.

"I have it." Thorin pushed him aside impatiently with his shoulder and set his fingers against the trunk. "Sit down," he added, catching a glimpse of the Elvenking's face out of the corner of his eye. "I do not wish to spend the night catching you."

"The wound is not severe," insisted his companion stubbornly. "It will take more than an orc's lucky strike to finish me."

For all his brave words, Thranduil allowed himself to slide down the trunk until he was seated at its base with his long legs stretched out before him, quite in the way of Thorin's attempts to remove bark. The dwarf limped around him, grinding his teeth in frustration at the delay, until he seemed to have enough strands to cover the wound.

"Stay there," he instructed the elf. "I will bind it where you sit."

It was as good a place as any, with the light of the sinking moon angling in under the branches, and he found that the fibres made a surprisingly good dressing, bound in place with strips cut from the Elvenking's torn tunic. When it was done, Thorin flopped down on the floor beside him and eased off his own boot with a grimace. His woollen sock was sodden with clots of half-congealed blood and came loose with difficulty. It was lucky, he thought, as he picked strands of wool from the injury, that the blade had missed bones and tendons, instead slicing cleanly through from the sole and leaving a purple exit wound on the top of his foot. Before he could change his mind, he tipped the last of the brandy into the injury, snarled viciously into his dark beard for the space of a few breaths, and then laid the remaining strips of inner bark over entrance and exit wounds. He was reaching for a strip of tunic when the Elvenking laid a hand on his ankle. Thorin's automatic protest died away as a soft golden glow spread from the elf's fingers, flowing down under the skin of the dwarf’s foot until it filled and overflowed from the wound. The angry throb was gradually replaced by a soothing, warm glow.

"What was that?"

"I am a King, and a Sindar. I have some gift of healing, although I am not a healer." Thranduil leaned back in the shadows against the tree as he spoke, disappearing from Thorin's sight.

"You've...gone out!" It was the first time Thranduil had been truly invisible.

"Gone...out?"

"That cursed eerie glow you elves have. It's gone!"

There was a movement in the shadows, as though the elf may have stretched out his fingers to check them, although he didn't comment.

"Why do you not glow?" Thorin pushed, wishing he knew more elf lore.

"It is no cause for concern," said Thranduil quietly. "I am tired. Healing takes energy."

"If it has drained you to that extent, why did you tend my foot? I did not ask it of you."

"You have assisted me. Besides, it is as well that one of us is fully mobile. There are still dangerous creatures abroad."

Momentarily forgetting their past acrimony, Thorin leaned forwards and placed a hand on the Elvenking's forearm.   The skin felt dry and icy cold beneath his calloused fingertips, and much softer than that of any dwarf.

"You have lost much blood." The dwarf's mind worked furiously. "You need water, and there is a stream nearby; I can hear it."

By the time he returned, tired and hungry but with his water skin refilled, the first cold light of dawn was stealing through the branches. Thranduil had not moved from his position against the tree, and Thorin was shocked at the elf's visible deterioration during the hours of darkness. His skin had taken on a grey hue and his hands trembled as he raised the water skin to dry lips.

"You do not look well, elf."

"I heal quickly." Thranduil assured him, looking more likely to topple over than recover in the near future. He was shivering in the torn remains of his tunic, the black cloak still wet with sleet and blood and no doubt providing little in the way of warmth, even for an elf.

Rather resentfully, Thorin removed the fur from his own shoulders and dropped it around those of the Elvenking. Startled blue eyes were raised to meet his flinty gaze, then Thranduil dropped his chin, his long hair falling around his face as though he wished to hide from the dwarf's sight. The elf had every reason to be ashamed, thought Thorin viciously, with a renewed surge of rage. Thranduil's actions at Erebor had cost the lives of many of his folk. The raw anger of their meeting in the Elvenking's Halls was never far from his mind, and now, fuelled by grief and exhaustion, it rekindled with the speed of wildfire.

"I do not know why I aid you. You have much to answer for."

The elf's head came up then, a glint of steel in his eyes. "You brought the danger on yourselves. On us all. I warned your father of his greed, but he did not listen."

"You were there! You had an army at your back! You turned away."

"Yes, dwarf, I turned away. Do you not think that memory haunts me? That I left you there, with your dwarf wives and your young? I had no choice."

"No choice!" Thorin's voice rose to a furious shout. "You had every choice! But you chose to turn your back, because of some worthless gems!"

"The gems were not worthless to me," Thranduil said coldly. "For all that, they had little bearing on my decision. I am a king; the elves of Mirkwood put their lives, their immortal lives, in my hands many centuries ago. So many have already been lost; I had no right to throw more lives away in a battle we could not win. It would not have saved you, the spilling of elven blood; it would merely have prolonged your misery. It was far better that you ran.

"You are the one who ran, back behind the safety of your borders!"

"And if I could live that day again, I would do the same."

Without thought, Thorin backhanded him across the face with all the pent up hatred of the intervening years behind the blow. Thranduil's head snapped to the side, but he made no move to retaliate.

"I should kill you now!" Thorin loomed over him, his control almost completely consumed by rage.

The Elvenking looked up at him, icily calm. "You may try." A tiny movement of his hand drew Thorin's attention to the silver sword lying unsheathed across his lap.

The dwarf spat. “To slay you, when you are so wounded, would be without honour.”

Thranduil’s eyes seemed to bore into him. A thin trickle of blood seeped from his nose and was ignored. “Have you never acted to safeguard your kinfolk? It seems to me it was not so long ago you stood behind your barricades and refused to fight, even though it was your own cousin, Dain, on the field below.”

Thorin glowered at him, knowing it to be true, and knowing also that the dragon sickness had only been partly to blame. The safety of his kin had been paramount, and perhaps the desire to watch the elf and his kind slaughtered. And now, those dearest to him were dead, their fate inevitably influenced by his actions. Instead of watching the elf torn apart they had fought a common foe, and now Thorin owed him the debt of his life, yet still a dark and vengeful part of him wished to see the Elvenking die. It seemed Thranduil knew the direction of his thoughts.

“Do not let my incapacity, or a simple sword strike at Azog, stay your hand.” As he spoke the Elvenking rose gracefully to his feet, the sword on his left raised but the other hanging sheathed at his side. That he could hold himself ready for battle at all was remarkable, although despite the icy control of his expression he was unable to disguise the tremble of his limbs.

Thorin found, to his surprise, that his own sword was drawn, the point quivering close to the pulse beating in Thranduil’s throat. Before he could thrust it forwards, the elf was gone, slipping to the side in a movement so fast that Thorin was still turning when the silver blade sliced away one of the braids from his beard.

"Begone dwarf! Or I will still your miserable heart and someone else will rule your mountain!"

Thranduil's longer reach kept him just clear of the wild swing of Thorin's blade, but soon his steps were faltering and his sword dipped. Without care for his own safety, the dwarf rushed at him, ducked beneath a blocking stroke that was slower than it should have been and crashed bodily into the taller figure. They hit the ground hard, Thranduil unable to restrain his cry of pain as Thorin landed atop of him. Much of the fight went out of him at that moment and the Dwarf King laid his sword across the long throat without difficulty. He held it there, applying just enough pressure that a few drops of blood wept over the blade and ran into the elf's long hair.

"You should have let Azog kill me,” he snarled.

"That may be so." Thranduil shifted beneath him, sweat shining above his lip. "Should I do so now, and leave both our peoples without a king?"

Thorin swallowed, becoming uncomfortably aware that the Elvenking's sword tip pressed lightly into his jugular. "Why did you not let me die?"

"Dark times are upon us. It seems your folk would benefit from a strong king."

Thorin stared at him, squinting his confusion. It was not the response he expected.

"You overcame dragon sickness and put right your foolish ways." Thranduil's voice was grave. "The future is uncertain. A strong King under the Mountain is no bad thing."

"Even if the ruler of Mirkwood is counted as his enemy?"

"Even then. Although if Mithrandir’s fears are proved correct, it appears dwarf and elf will have need of each other.”

“How can I forget your treachery; my kinfolk suffered greatly at Erebor.”

“As mine have suffered, for many centuries. I could not ask it of them again that day, not with our numbers so depleted and with darkness rising in the east. Soon I fear the free folk of Middle Earth will need all their combined strength to withstand it.”

“How do you propose that we combine our strengths, when all you do is retreat behind your borders?”

“I think the time for that is past,” said Thranduil in a faint voice. “If the wizard’s words are as wise as I fear, none will escape the evil that descends upon us." He shifted again, his rib cage pushing up against Thorin’s sternum, seeming not to care that it caused the dwarf’s sword to bite more deeply into the skin of his throat. Seeing the renewed trickle of red across the blade, Thorin pulled it clear, frowning at the face inches from his own as Thranduil’s sword fell away, the sharp clatter of its landing ringing in the cold air.

"You do not defend yourself?"

“If you do not intend to cut my throat…in the name of the Valar, get off me.”

Too late, Thorin recalled the elf’s injury, pressed now between his weight and the hard ground; he must be in excruciating pain. The dwarf rose with a curse and sheathed his sword. At his feet, Thranduil rolled to one side with a groan and retched miserably, bringing up the water he had so recently consumed. It seemed the fates had decreed they must be allies, and with that thought foremost in his mind, the kinder side of Thorin’s gruff nature reasserted itself, and he found himself pitying the elf’s predicament. Bad enough to be injured so cruelly, but far worse to have only an enemy to give aid.

He leaned down, the rough skin of his fingers snagging a little on the silken strands of elven hair as he lifted it clear of the mess upon the ground. He expected to be rebuffed, but Thranduil was too wrapped in pain to care, making no protest when Thorin took him beneath the arms and dragged him back to lean against the tree. There the elf rested, breath sawing in and out in distress.

“They must be looking for us,” murmured Thorin, thinking aloud. “Surely your son will be seeking his father?”

“Legolas will…not be coming.” Thranduil bent his head, too slow to hide the vulnerability in his eyes. He dug his fingers into the dressing over his wound, almost as though the physical pain was preferable to whatever torture existed in his mind.

It was possible that in the aftermath of battle, none had seen the direction they had been taken by the eagle. Perhaps none had seen them taken at all. There were flakes of snow on the chill wind; staying any longer in that exposed location was not an option. Thorin stroked his beard thoughtfully, rueing the loss of his fine braid as he eyed the terrain between their hillside and Lake Town.

“It is mainly downhill,” he noted. “Can you walk?”

Thranduil pushed himself slowly upright and retrieved his sword, but did not return it to its sheath.

“I fear we will need to do more than walk,” he said quietly. “Soon orcs will be upon us.”

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to know what you think so far? 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Huge amounts of appreciation to those who left kudos.


	3. Chapter 3

"Orcs?"  Thorin stared at him, unable to hear anything approaching over the moan of the chill wind through winter bare branches, but accepting without question that the elf had the keener senses. "How long? Might they pass us by?"

"I fear they have our scent. A few moments, maybe more. My armour..."

Thorin swept it up without a word and strapped it in place as gently as he could, taking care to pad beneath the clasps with the last soft fabric from the torn tunic. Despite the care of his fingers, by the time he had finished Thranduil was pale and sweating, but the elf nodded his thanks nonetheless and gestured down the hillside.

"Follow the small ravine, then cut across into the trees. If you are stealthy, I believe you may slip past them."

Thorin gave him an unkind look. "And what of you?"

"I fear I cannot travel at any speed. I will delay them as much as I am able. I do not wish to be the cause of your demise."

"I may be mortal, but I assure you that I have no intention of throwing away the years I have left." The Dwarf King's profile seemed carved from granite as he looked in the direction indicated by the elf. "What manner of being do you take me for? I am no coward, to run and leave you to the mercy of orcs."  The very thought of such an abandonment defiled him.

Thranduil drew his second sword with a grimace, his long fingers curling tight around the pommel but his grip shaky, the sword tip barely clear of the ground. Thorin wondered if he would even be able to raise it in his own defence.

"Go," repeated the Elven King. "The orcs will be distracted by my blood."

"Aye," snapped the dwarf. "Because they wish to eat you alive!  It's well known that orcs favour the sweetness of elf flesh above all other." It was of little consequence that they had begun the previous day as enemies; they faced a common foe. He rounded on Thranduil, fury igniting in his eyes. "We will fight together or not at all. If they wish to sup on elven flesh, they must pay dearly with their own."

Thranduil stared at him, the gleam of his mithril breastplate catching and throwing back the pale light. Then he dipped his head in surprised acquiescence. "It will be an honour to fight at your side, Thorin Oakenshield."

"Likewise."

Thorin shifted Orcrist in his hand, the weight solid and reassuring as the lightning of impending combat flickered in his veins. Beside him, Thranduil moved gracefully into a fighting stance, no sign of his injury apparent as he stared haughtily at the oncoming orcs.  The dwarf grinned up at him, his teeth a flash of white against his dark beard, more alive in that moment before battle than at any other, and the gesture was met by the elegant arch of Thranduil's eyebrow and an answering gleam in the elf's eyes.

Then the orcs were upon them, and Thorin parried the first stroke from a war axe, feeling the downdraft on his hair as the Elven King's sword sliced away the creature's ugly head. They fought together by necessity, and yet the two warriors found a rhythm in their killing, with the elf's longer reach compensating for Thorin's injured foot, and the dwarf's position on Thranduil's right-hand side shielding his wound, but leaving him free to wield his deadly left blade.

There were many orcs, too many in truth for two warriors to survive, but kings in Middle Earth did not rule by their bloodline alone, and neither wished to be the first to falter, not when the pride of elf and dwarf was at stake.

The swiftness and accuracy of each strike, each blocked blow, gave them the confidence to trust in each other, so that in time they were no longer a dwarf and an elf, but rather two warriors, comrades giving mutual support, each aware of the other's strengths and weaknesses and utilising both until they performed a deadly dance of death before the orcs.

Slowly and deliberately they retreated so their backs were secure against an overhanging outcrop of rock. And there they made their stand, gradually whittling away their assailants until the numbers thinned and the ground was slippery with black orc blood and littered with corpses.

In time, as his sword arm grew heavy and the madness of battle gave way to a soul-deep weariness, Thorin became aware of the ragged pant of the elf's breath and, realising he must be upright through strength of will alone, he leaned a shoulder into the armoured torso, slowly pushing Thranduil back against the rock in the hope that it would support him.

There were several more small attacks and then, through a daze of exhaustion, the dwarf saw that only two orcs remained alive. They kept their distance, gesticulating and snarling to each other in their foul tongue.

"Do not let me fall."  Words quiet as drifting feathers brushed against Thorin's eardrums, more breath than speech. The dwarf took a half pace back and to the side, his shoulders now hard up against the Elven King's chest, pinning him to the rock face, studiously ignoring the exhalation that sounded suspiciously like a moan.

The orcs watched them for a while, seeing two warriors with bloodied blades surrounded by the dismembered remains of fellow orcs. After a pause they seemed to come to a unanimous decision and turned away, one of them gesturing at the Elven King and shouting something that was incomprehensible to Thorin.

"Another day, indeed," muttered Thranduil, clearly having some knowledge of orcish, his breath hot against the crown of the dwarf's head. "But in the name of the Valar, not today!"

"I have seen enough orc," agreed Thorin, allowing his sword to sag towards the unclean grass. The scrape of metal and an increase in the pressure against his shoulders alerted him to Thranduil's slow descent to the floor. Too tired to turn, the dwarf went with him, so that they ended up on their backsides, still propped together for support.

After a grey and vacant pause, there was an undignified snort and the unexpected shudder of a chuckle against Thorin's back. He twisted his head around to see the curve of a smile pulling at the Elven King's tired face.

"So much for the dignity of kings!"

"Aye." Thorin untangled the elf's cursed long tresses from his beard, grumbling a little, and cast them to the side. "Can you not braid your hair, like any normal warrior?"

Thranduil tilted his head, staring down at Thorin with merriment bright in his eyes. "Is that your only complaint?" His head fell back against the rock and he began to laugh in earnest, clutching at his wounded side, the sound of his mirth pained but wild, as though he had not laughed in far too long.

"Aye," agreed Thorin, giving in to the ache in his jaw and letting loose a rich chuckle of his own. "I believe it is."

In time their laughter turned to a peaceable quiet, both of them too worn to wish to rise and taking some odd comfort from the physical contact, as though the feel of another's chest rising and falling, and the small muscle twitch of battle weary limbs against each other, affirmed the fact that they were both still alive.

Eventually, the heat of battle gone, Thorin became aware again of the chill wind and drew his knees up, preparatory to rising.

"We should make our way to Lake Town," said Thranduil quietly. "Though were it not for the stench of these orcs, I am not sure I would bother to rise."

"Ah, but I have visions of a hot bath and a feather mattress." Thorin sent a sly glance in the elf's direction. "You are not very comfortable."

"I think you will find that is the armour," pointed out Thranduil. "It is not designed for comfort, even for the wearer. It does, however, hold me together at present."

"And how does your wound fare?" The strenuous motion of battle must surely have wreaked further damage.

"Quite dreadful," admitted Thranduil in a rare burst of honesty. "Although much better than it would have been, if a dwarf had not guarded it so fiercely. I owe you my thanks, Thorin Oakenshield."

"And I owe you mine, Thranduil Oropherion," replied Thorin in a grave tone.

"It seems to me that if a dwarf and an elf can fight together and prevail against such odds, then their kingdoms should be able to exist side by side in harmony."

"That is also my earnest wish."

Thorin rose, somewhat awkwardly because of the necessity of avoiding the elf's long legs, and held out his hand to help the other rise. Thranduil took it without hesitation, and in doing so something unspoken passed between them, as profound as any formal oath and just as binding.

They made their unsteady way past the dead and down the long slope of the hill, walking into the teeth of the wind, flurries of ice crystals decorating the wild tangle of Thorin's dark hair with a thousand white jewels.

When the dwarf's limp became too pronounced, it was a natural thing to reach out to the side and grasp the back of Thranduil’s cloak to lessen the likelihood of falling. Likewise, as Thranduil’s strength waned, it was easy enough to lean a little to one side and allow the dwarf's strength to support his weight.  In their journey, as in battle, the two found it was easier to trust than to struggle alone, so there was no shame or lack of honour when a party of elves came upon them, stumbling along in the light snow, Thranduil’s arm about the dwarf's shoulders and Thorin's arm around the elf's waist.

"My Lord King!"

Their leader was off his horse and down on one knee in the blink of an eye, genuine emotion on his face as he broke protocol and gazed openly at the Elven King.

"We feared you were dead!"

Thranduil motioned for him to rise, relief robbing him of more precious grains of his remaining strength. Thorin felt the incremental increase in weight and took the extra load without comment or visible sign. It would not do for either of them to collapse in front of others.

The elf rose gracefully, regarding his king with concern. "Are you injured, Aran Nin?"

"I will require the services of a healer," said Thranduil calmly. “As will King Thorin.”

It said much for the impassive faces of elven kind that the warriors showed no surprise when their King accepted help only from the dwarf to mount a horse, and then proceeded to pull him up in front of him.

“There are healers in Lake Town, assisting the wounded, Lord King.”

“Lead the way,” said Thranduil in a regal manner, his head held high and none aware but Thorin of the desperation in the grip of his fingers on the dwarf’s waist.

“This is a very tall horse,” noted Thorin uneasily.

“Then let us keep our seats, for it is a long way to the floor.”

“I have no intention of falling, elf.” The dwarf paused, his tone softening. “Nor of letting you fall.”

“Likewise, for I would never hear the last of it.”

So it was that they arrived in the remains of Lake Town. Word spread rapidly that both kings still lived, against all expectations, and a small gaggle of onlookers assembled outside the Elven King’s tent. Messengers went scurrying through the dismal sleet, seeking healers and taking news of Thorin’s return to the dwarves.

In the general noise and excitement, Thorin took the opportunity to swing his leg over the neck of the horse and slide to the ground, taking great care to keep his weight off his injured foot and grateful for the steadying grip of Thranduil’s hand on his arm. The elf dismounted after him, silent thanks in his eyes for the subtle support of Thorin’s shoulder. He gestured to the tent.

“I would be away from these curious eyes. Will you join me for cup of Dorwinion while we await the arrival of the healers?”

“I would prefer ale,” said Thorin gruffly. “But in the circumstances your fancy elvish brew will be welcome.”

“It is as well you learn to appreciate the taste now,” answered Thranduil in a serene tone. “It is served to all guests in my Kingdom, although ale is available for those who have a less select palate.”

“I do not recall any wine being offered when I was last your guest.”

“Your next visit will be at my invitation,” noted Thranduil. “And presumably you will also remember to bid me farewell before you leave.”

The tent flap fell behind them, muffling the bustle of the camp and finally stilling the searching fingers of the icy wind. A stately elf materialised as if from thin air; he removed their wet cloaks and the fine mithril armour and produced a flagon of Dorwinion and two elegant drinking cups, all in silence, then bowed deeply and took his leave.

Thranduil made no movement to sit, instead swaying slightly in his torn breeches and undertunic, caught in the pool of yellow lamplight that lay around the small table. It was as though he waited for something, and suddenly Thorin understood.

“Your son. He is not here.”

“No.” The tone of the single word told the dwarf that all the strength of the elf was now gone, his remaining will sapped by this simple fact.

“You expected him?”

“No.” Without his armour and devoid of fine tunics and cloaks, the elf seemed more slender, more fragile, and able to be broken as easily as the most delicate crystal. Thorin’s strong fingers closed around the Elven King’s forearm as he looked up at his face.

“And yet you hoped.”

After all they had been through, the catch in the elf’s breath at this simple sentence was profoundly moving.

“A father always hopes.” And there was a shine in the elf’s downcast eyes and a glistening trail over his cheekbone and no resistance at all when the dwarf gently steered him to the throne-like chair by the table.

“Sit,” Thorin urged. “Sit. We will drink wine and warm our bones. And we will bury our kin and we will heal, and one day your son will return, and we will tell him how a dwarf and an elf came to be friends.”

Thranduil sat, and his gaze followed Thorin as he limped around, finding a blanket to lay across elven shoulders and pouring them both a brimming cup of the sweet wine. The elf wrapped his long, pale fingers around the cup and raised it slightly.

“To kin,” he said, his eyes meeting those of the dwarf. “And to friends.”

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will leave Thorin and Thranduil in the capable hands of the healers in this alternative universe where Thorin survives. I hope you enjoyed this trip into my crazy imagination.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make my day ;-)
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has read, and extra special thanks to those who left kudos and lovely comments.
> 
> Nothing belongs to me, no profit. All credit to Tolkien and Jackson and the characters who inspired such a fiction.


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